It Should Never Have Happened
by Snowblazehollyleafstar
Summary: After millennia of wandering worlds, building up resources with infuriating slowness, Fëanor's plans are a decade away from completion. The last thing he needs is to fall in love with a mortal, particularly when she's an agent of the Authority he's spent thousands of years fighting. But he can't stop himself. (Or: Asriel is Feanor AU. Cross-posted from AO3. Updates daily for now.)
1. Marisa

He first saw her at the Royal Arctic Institute, when he was giving a presentation on his latest expedition. She was sitting next to a man he recognised, from a couple of formal occasions they'd both attended: Edward Coulter.

Fëanor didn't know Edward that well, but already strongly disliked him. He called himself a politician, but he was a weak man in truth, and had no firm policies on anything: it seemed to depend on what he thought the company he was in would want to hear.

The woman sitting next to him, on the other hand, was a complete stranger to him. He had not seen her before. At first glance, there was nothing special about her. She was pretty enough, by mortal standards, but nothing out of the ordinary.

She was dressed elegantly and tastefully, the pale blue of her dress perfectly complementing her fair hair, and she had some indefinable quality that drew the eye. Her dæmon, perched neatly on her shoulder, was a golden monkey.

But he wasn't the type to allow himself to become distracted by women, particularly not now, with his plans close to completion, so he carried on with his presentation, ignoring her.

Once it was done, and he was standing around taking cocktails and answering questions from the audience, Edward came up to him with her following.

"Ah, Asriel!" he said. "Excellent to see you again!"

Fëanor hid his annoyance at the over-familiarity and shook the proffered hand vigorously, giving it a slightly hard squeeze to vent his frustration at still being stuck here, playing at politics with these foolish mortals.

"And you," he replied.

"I don't think you've met my wife – this is Marisa – Marisa, Lord Asriel."

"Hello," she replied. "I've heard a lot about you, and it's so nice of Edward to indulge my humble curiosity – I have a little interest in your work, and I wondered if you might spare your time to answer a few questions?"

He had to smile at her blatant flattery. He knew she was just trying to get on his good side, and she didn't really believe a word she was saying, but it was still rather convincing.

"Yes, of course," he replied, wondering how on earth Edward Coulter, whose only talent was his vast array of connections, had managed to win over a woman like this. He could already see the intelligence glittering in her eyes. Presumably she had only married him for the influence he could bring her. "I'll be happy to tell you whatever you want to know. Would you care to sit down?"

He led the way over to the nearest little table and sat down, Marisa joining him and pulling out a third chair for Edward.

However, Mr Coulter had very little interest in Arctic exploration, and so said: "You don't mind if I leave you to it? I've just seen a couple of friends of mine."

Marisa nodded, and Edward left, much to Fëanor's relief. Stelmaria lay down underneath the table, rubbing herself gently against Fëanor's leg, and he smiled.

He still found it hard to believe that he'd only known Stelmaria for the ten years or so that he'd been in this world. It felt as if she had been there forever. Dæmons were this world's one compensation. When you'd been wandering the worlds for literal millennia, things could get a bit lonely, and it was nice to have some company, even if she was sort of just himself.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, turning back to Marisa.

"Oh, all sorts of things," she replied airily. "The secrets of creation… how people came to have dæmons… the truth about this Barnard-Stokes many-worlds hypothesis… that sort of thing."

He tried to prevent himself from laughing. "I'm afraid I won't be able to help you with any of that," he said, even though he knew that there were indeed many worlds. "My knowledge can only stretch so far, after all."

"In that case," she replied, acknowledging his point with a little nod, "perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your latest expedition? I'm really most interested in the experimental concepts that you were investigating…"

She then proceeded to ask a few very perceptive questions, confirming his view of her as a very intelligent woman, and from there their conversation somehow turned into a lively debate about how heavily regulated experimental theology should be by the Church.

Fëanor, of course, greatly disapproved of the entire concept of Church regulation, and had no qualms about telling Marisa so, quite candidly.

"This talk of yours could almost be regarded as heresy," she said, but it wasn't at all threatening: there was an almost teasing note to her voice.

Fëanor decided it was probably wise to keep his views about heresy (which could be basically boiled down to "it's nothing but a way to prevent people from disagreeing with you") to himself. "I'm no heretic," he said, keeping his tone carefully as light as hers.

"Did I say you were?" she asked innocently.

To his surprise, Fëanor found himself enjoying this playful banter as he hadn't enjoyed a conversation with a mortal for hundreds of years. "No, but you certainly implied it," he replied.

"You implied it from my words," corrected Marisa. "You're making assumptions about what I mean based on unsubstantiated evidence."

"My evidence is perfectly substantiated," he said hotly.

"Marisa!"

They both spun around at the same moment.

"There you are!"

It was Edward. Fëanor supressed his sigh.

"I was wondering where you'd got to, have you been here all this time?"

"Yes – has it really been – twenty minutes?" She raised her eyebrows. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Edward, what Lord Asriel was telling me was so fascinating I'm afraid I must have lost track of time. Thank you so much for sparing your time for me, Lord Asriel." Without another word, she stood up and followed Edward away.

Fëanor stared after her for a long while.


	2. Lord Asriel

She first saw him at the Royal Arctic Institute, where he was giving a presentation on his latest expedition. She'd known of him beforehand, of course: he had quite a reputation and she was curious to see what he was like in person.

The moment she saw him, she just knew that there was something _different_ about him. His clothes were smart and neat, but unremarkable. He was taller than anyone else in the room, and he seemed to have an aura of power around him, almost magnetically forcing her eyes to gaze into his cold grey ones. His dæmon was a snow leopard, her fur made of silky grey.

She knew, in that moment, that she had to make him hers. She had charmed so many men (including the one sitting next to her) that it had become almost a game. It was too easy: just a smile here, a glance there, and she could wind anyone around her little finger.

Playing against Lord Asriel, on the other hand, would be something completely different, and she couldn't wait to try it.

"Could you introduce me to him?" she asked Edward sweetly, once the presentation was finished. "I'd like to ask him a few questions, I'm really curious about his work." She hated the way she couldn't openly admit to being more than idly curious about these things. How she had to hide her brains behind a veil of beauty.

"Certainly," replied Edward. He took her hand to help her to her feet and led her over to where Asriel stood.

"Ah, Asriel!" said Edward, extending his hand. "Excellent to see you again!"

Lord Asriel took his hand and shook it, gripping it so tightly that a flicker of discomfort shot across Edward's face. "And you," he replied.

"I don't think you've met my wife?" asked Edward, gesturing to Marisa. "This is Marisa – Marisa, Lord Asriel."

"Hello," she replied. She wasn't sure quite yet which approach to take, which way to go about winning him over, so she stuck to the basics. "I've heard a lot about you, and it's so nice of Edward to indulge my humble curiosity – I have a little interest in your work, and I wondered if you might spare your time to answer a few questions?"

She was rewarded for these initial efforts with a smile and a response of "Yes, of course. I'll be happy to tell you whatever you want to know. Would you care to sit down?"

Marisa followed him over to the nearest table and sat down opposite him, pulling out a third chair for Edward.

"You don't mind if I leave you to it?" asked Edward, who had very little interest in Arctic exploration.

Marisa, concealing her joy (it would be much harder to win Lord Asriel over in the presence of her husband, not to mention that his company bored her), nodded.

"What do you want to know?" asked Lord Asriel.

"Oh, all sorts of things," she replied. "The secrets of creation… how people came to have dæmons… the truth about this Barnard-Stokes many-worlds hypothesis… that sort of thing."

There was no visible reaction, which was surprising for Marisa, who could have had any other man eating out of her hand by this point.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to help you with any of that," he replied. "My knowledge can only stretch so far, after all."

Marisa nodded to acknowledge his point. "Then perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your latest expedition? I'm really most interested in the experimental concepts that you were investigating…"

She didn't bother concealing her intelligence, this time, and it seemed to have been the right move. It didn't take long before she had managed to break through his icy exterior and was engaged in a lively debate on the Church's regulation of experimental theology.

She wasn't entirely surprised to find that Asriel completely disapproved of the concept of Church regulation. His remarks went just a little too far for her liking, so she decided she couldn't let them pass altogether.

"This talk of yours could almost be regarded as heresy," she said, keeping her voice light to make sure there was no way he could misinterpret her comment as a threat.

"I'm no heretic," he replied, voice just as casual as hers.

"Did I say you were?" asked Marisa, an almost playful note in her voice, making it sound as if her words weren't being selected as carefully as they were for the precise effect they would have.

"No, but you certainly implied it."

"You implied it from my words. You're making assumptions about what I mean based on unsubstantiated evidence." She didn't really believe that: at this stage she was just trying to get through to him in any way she could, and she had the feeling he wouldn't mind it.

"My evidence is perfectly substantiated." Was that a slight note of some emotion in his voice? Anger, if that was what it was, wasn't what she wanted to make him feel, but it was something more than the little she'd received so far.

"Marisa!" It was Edward. She glanced around at the same moment as Lord Asriel did, hiding her annoyance with practiced ease. "I was wondering where you'd got to, have you been here all this time?"

"Yes," she said, glancing at her watch, "– has it really been – twenty minutes? Oh, I'm so sorry, Edward, what Lord Asriel was telling me was so fascinating I'm afraid I must have lost track of time," she gushed, forcing herself to supress every last bit of frustration. There would be other opportunities, she was sure. "Thank you so much for sparing your time for me, Lord Asriel."

With that, she stood up and followed Edward away, the golden monkey springing lightly into her waiting arms, making sure not to give even the slightest glance backwards despite practically being able to feel Lord Asriel's eyes boring into her back.


	3. Heresy

Over the next few days, as Fëanor went from meeting to gathering to social event to quiet room where he could be alone and slowly begin to piece together the details of his plans, he thought of Marisa often.

In a bored moment, whenever what he was doing didn't engage his full attention (which was very often) her face would cross his mind. He remembered every tiny detail of her face, from the exact sparkle in her deep sapphire-blue eyes to the way her lips curved into an insincere but beautiful smile.

Stelmaria was not happy about this. "Why are you thinking about her all of the time?" she asked, repeatedly. "There are much more important things to think about than a mortal woman with half a brain and a pretty smile!"

He knew she was right, but he didn't stop thinking about Marisa. She wasn't distracting him, and he wasn't going to let her. Just thinking was harmless enough; there was no reason to stop doing it.

It was about a week later that he saw her again. He was going into the library to look up some figures when he saw her sitting at one of the tables, writing something.

"Don't," said Stelmaria.

Fëanor ignored her and went up to the table at which Marisa was sitting. He placed one hand on the table and leaned on it a little. "Hello," he said.

"Lord Asriel!" said Marisa, looking up from her paper and meeting his eyes. "What an unexpected surprise!"

There was a seat opposite Marisa's, which Fëanor pulled out from under the table and sat down on. "That is a tautology," he said. "If it were expected it would not be a surprise."

She glared at him. "There is such a thing as an expected surprise," she replied. "If one were to know that there were to be a surprise, but not what said surprise was, then that would be an expected surprise."

Fëanor had to acknowledge that she had a point. Far from being annoyed by this, however, he was actually pleased.

"I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly last week," said Marisa. "Edward is so over-protective that he gets jealous if I spend five minutes outside his company. Which is much less entertaining than yours, incidentally."

"Thank you," he said. "Although, having met your husband a few times, I doubt that what you're saying is actually much of a compliment."

Marisa suddenly seemed to realise what she was saying. Here she was, a married woman, disparaging her husband to another man while complimenting him at the same time. "I'm sorry – " she said. "I shouldn't have said that – I'm married – if anyone found out – "

"Do you care about – convention?" he asked.

"No, but I care about what people will think if I don't follow convention."

"Well," he replied, a lazy smile playing across his face, "we'll just have to make sure people don't find out, then."

Marisa blinked. This wasn't what she had been expecting. After a long silence, she said "Yes. I suppose you're right."

They stared at each other for a long moment. Fëanor watched the golden monkey slip off Marisa's shoulder and into the middle of the table. Stelmaria unwound herself from his legs and slipped underneath the table with what, if he hadn't known her so well by now, he would have thought a purr.

The silence continued, but Fëanor could tell that something had changed between them. They were no longer wary and mistrustful, but comfortable in each other's presence.

"Shall we continue our discussion where we left off the other day?" asked Fëanor.

"Yes," replied Marisa. "What you were saying about the regulation of science could easily be seen as heresy, you know."

"Define heresy for me," insisted Fëanor.

"Certainly. According to the Decree of Geneva, 1876, heresy is defined as questioning or going against the word of God as shown by the Bible or by any officially recognised prophet or saint, or by a sign which has been approved by the College of Bishops or the Society of the Works of the Holy Spirit."

"And has God ever pronounced on the regulation of science?"

"…No, but many of the scientific works which could have otherwise been allowed to go ahead unchecked would be classed as heresy."

"But saying that regulation shouldn't be so strict isn't technically heresy, is it?"

Marisa nodded reluctantly. "Not _technically_, but… I doubt the Church would see it that way. If you said that in front of anyone…"

"Other than you?" asked Fëanor. "I presume you wouldn't – "

For one brief moment, Marisa's face clouded with a rebellious look. Maybe he had said the wrong thing.

"I wouldn't _presume_, if I were you. But… no, I won't. You're a controversial enough figure as it is. I wouldn't be surprised if they had their eye on you by now."

"Nor would I," replied Fëanor. "But I don't particularly care if they do."

Marisa gasped. "You don't care about the Church?" she said. "How can you – the Church is everything, you can't just not care about it!"

"I can," he replied calmly, "and I will."

Marisa stared at him in shock. "I care about the Church," she told him. "The Church is the only way to get anywhere in this world."

"Be careful," whispered Stelmaria, and Fëanor bit his tongue: he had been about to make a thoughtless remark about the phrase "in this world" which would have been giving away far too much.

"I should go," he said, annoyed with himself. "I have to look up some figures."

"I haven't offended you, I hope?"

"No," he replied, standing up, "not at all. I hope to see you again soon."

"We could meet," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "Here. The same time. Tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow. I have a meeting in Parliament. The day after?"

Marisa nodded, and Fëanor turned to walk away, a feeling he couldn't explain burning inside him.


	4. The Library

Marisa couldn't get him out of her head for the next week. She had never realised just how boring her life was. Boring people, boring things, boring conversations. He was the only thing worth thinking about.

She was sitting in the library one day, taking notes from a book on experimental theology, when she heard him say "Hello" and looked up to find him there. She was startled, but quickly hid it beneath her perfect mask.

"Lord Asriel," she said. "What an unexpected surprise!"

"That is a tautology. If it were expected it would not be a surprise."

"There is such a thing as an expected surprise. If one were to know that there were to be a surprise, but not what said surprise was, then that would be an expected surprise." It was dubious, yes, but she couldn't let him have the last word.

To her relief, he looked grudgingly impressed.

"I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly last week," she said: it was polite, but genuine. As genuine as anything Marisa said, anyway. "Edward is so over-protective that he gets jealous if I spend five minutes outside his company. Which is much less entertaining than yours, incidentally."

"Thank you. Although, having met your husband a few times, I doubt that what you're saying is actually much of a compliment."

She mentally nodded to herself, running through a checklist of exactly how to act built up from prior experience. This was much more comfortable territory for her. Now to pretend to show doubt, to hesitate. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have said that – I'm married – if anyone found out – "

"Do you care about – convention?" he asked, sounding a little disappointed.

"No, I care about what people will think if I don't follow convention."

"Well, we'll just have to make sure people don't find out, then." He smiled lazily.

This was exactly what Marisa had been hoping for, but she hadn't quite dared to expect it. "Yes," she said after a suitable pause. "I suppose you're right." The golden monkey slipped away from the shoulder he'd been clinging to into the middle of the table. She pretended not to observe his own dæmon moving underneath in a similar way, purring.

"Shall we continue our discussion where we left off the other day?" he asked.

"Yes. What you were saying about the regulation of science could easily be seen as heresy, you know."

"Define heresy for me."

"Certainly," said Marisa, who had practically memorised every Church decree in the last three centuries. "According to the Decree of Geneva, 1876, heresy is defined as questioning or going against the word of God as shown by the Bible or by any officially recognised prophet or saint, or by a sign approved by the College of Bishops or the Society of the Works of the Holy Spirit."

"And has God ever pronounced on the regulation of science?"

"…No," admitted Marisa reluctantly, "but many of the scientific works which could have been allowed to progress unchecked would be classed as heresy."

"But saying that regulation shouldn't be so strict isn't heresy, is it?"

"Not technically, but…" She was being forced to doubt, now. She refused to believe his words. "I doubt the Church would see it that way. If you said that in front of anyone…"

"Other than you? I presume you wouldn't – "

Marisa felt that last remark was just a tiny bit over the line. "I wouldn't presume, if I were you."It was wise just to remind him, only a little, that he couldn't trust her. Not yet. "But… no, I won't. You're a controversial enough figure as it is. I wouldn't be surprised if they had their eye on you by now."

"Nor would I. But I don't particularly care if they do."

To Marisa, this was unthinkable. She couldn't find words to express her shock or inability to understand his view. "You don't care about the Church? How can you – the Church is everything, you can't just not care about it!"

"I can, and I will," he replied, as if there was nothing she could do to change his mind.

"I care about the Church. The Church is the only way to get anywhere in this world."

He seemed about to say something, but then stopped and resumed with "I should go. I have to look up some figures."

"I haven't offended you, I hope?" she asked, trying to think of some possible explanation for this abrupt departure. No obvious ones sprung to mind.

"No," he replied, standing up, "not at all. I hope to see you again soon."

"We could meet," she said, speaking quickly before she began to doubt herself. She needed to see him again. "Here. The same time. Tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow. I have a meeting in Parliament. The day after?"

Marisa nodded, and he turned to walk away.

She turned the situation over in her mind, again and again, as she watched him leave, and for some time afterwards. What could she make of him? It seemed almost as if she'd failed a test. Was he trying to get her to admit that she, too, didn't care about the Church? Was he disappointed that she did?

But there was this new meeting: he wanted to see her again. Was this a success? Or something completely different?

She knew she was running a huge risk. The consequences if Edward found out would be unbearable. But… somehow, it didn't quite seem to matter, because this was Lord Asriel. For a moment, she felt that she was out of her depth with him, that she'd made a huge mistake.

She could walk away now, except she couldn't. That would be letting him win, and Marisa had never been able to stand losing. She would not lose to him.


	5. Meetings

"We shouldn't be doing this," said Stelmaria. "She supports the Church. She is our enemy."

They were sitting at a table in the library, and it was five minutes before Marisa was due to meet him.

Fëanor sighed. "We've been through this hundreds of times," he snapped. "It's just a bit of fun. Nothing serious. Don't we deserve some pleasure, after everything?"

"Nerdanel," said Stelmaria softly to him. "Your wife. You've been faithful to her all these years. Do you really want to throw all that away for _her?_"

"I haven't kept away from women out of faithfulness to Nerdanel," he said, "and you know that. I kept away because they were never good enough for me."

"And she is?" asked Stelmaria incredulously but quietly, mindful as ever of the people around them.

Fëanor said nothing. There was no answer to that question.

"She's _mortal, _Fëanor. We'll lose her in fifty, sixty, seventy years no matter what we do. It's easier to leave now, before we get too attached. Just get on with the plan, do what you have to do, and that's that."

Fëanor knew she was right, but he still didn't leave.

"Asriel," said her warm voice, and suddenly she was right there beside him.

He got to his feet. "Walk with me?" he asked.

She nodded. "We must not be seen, though," she added. The golden monkey slipped down from her shoulder and down to the ground; Stelmaria got to her feet with a swish of her long grey tail and took one cautious step forwards towards the monkey.

Fëanor walked more slowly than was his usual habit, partly to let her keep up and partly because he sensed that with this, with her, there was no need to hurry.

"Where are we going?" asked Marisa, as the two people and two dæmons proceeded out of the library and into the sunny London day.

"My apartment," said Fëanor impulsively. "It's not far. We can be in private there."

Marisa hesitated: even with the newfound trust between them, it was still a huge step for a married woman to go alone into the house of a man who was not her husband. But she said nothing, and followed him down the street and a short distance through the park to the row of flats opposite.

"I'm not often in London," he told her conversationally, "so there is no need for a grander house."

"How long will you stay this time?" Marisa asked. Her tone was casual, but Fëanor could see the importance his answer held to her.

"I haven't decided yet. A few months, I expect. We'll see."

By this time, they had reached the block of flats which contained his apartment. Fëanor keyed in the door code and ushered Marisa into the sparse hallway and up the stairs. His apartment was three floors from the top of the ten-storey building, so they had quite a bit of climbing to do.

Stelmaria bounded impatiently up, pausing to wait for Fëanor, who was climbing slowly to keep Marisa company.

"Nearly there," he said: she was a little flushed from the exertion. "One more flight… here we are." He pulled a small silver-coloured key from his pocket and slotted it into the lock. With a deft twist of his hand, the door swung open.

"Come in," he said. "Do sit down. I'm afraid it's not that impressive, but it serves well enough."

They sat down together at the small wooden table, the dæmons curled up beneath it, close but not quite touching yet.

"You'll have some wine?" asked Fëanor. "I have a bottle or two of Tokay."

"Please," replied Marisa, smiling a little as she watched him stand up and produce a bottle and two wineglasses from a cupboard. He was conscious of her eyes tracking his every move.

He poured the golden wine into the glasses, put the bottle on the sideboard, and handed one of the glasses to Marisa.

"Here's to us," said Marisa, raising her glass; mildly surprised at her toast, he nonetheless clinked his glass against hers before taking a sip.

Silence fell between them as they each slowly drank their wine and stared at each other. Fëanor felt Stelmaria, beneath him, shift her position just a little until the tip of her tail brushed the golden monkey's fur.

Marisa gasped: a sharp little intake of breath at this contact. Then she caught Fëanor's eye and smiled slowly. The hand which didn't hold her glass flopped loosely onto the table, practically inviting him to reach out and touch her.

He did. There was no reason not to, so slowly, carefully, he stretched out his own hand and placed it gently on hers. She looked at him with an expression of pure happiness and devotion, but he was not deceived by her sickly-sweet smile.

She was playing games with him, and he wasn't going to let her win. He didn't know if she wanted him as an end in himself, or wanted to use him as a pawn in her political games, or possibly even both, but he did know that he would not allow himself to be used.

He could play these games too, though, as well as she could, if not better. She would not win against Fëanor son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor. No mortal could hope to, not even this extraordinary woman.

This was merely a bit of fun for him, a distraction from his aims. It was a fine way to pass the next decade or so, and Marisa was the first truly worthy opponent he had known in thousands of years.

He took his hand away and regarded her with icy disdain, pretending that she was not worthy of his time as he stared deliberately into the distance and sipped at his wine, while at the same time watching her reaction closely, waiting to see what her next move would be.

He was going to enjoy playing against her.


	6. The Apartment

When she walked into the library two days later, he was sitting at one of the tables, talking to his dæmon quietly. She walked as close as she could, half hoping to surprise him, half to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"She's mortal, Fëanor," the snow-leopard dæmon was saying. "We'll lose her in fifty, sixty, seventy years no matter what we do. It's easier to leave now, before we get too attached. Just get on with the plan, do what you have to do, and that's that."

Marisa blinked. She had always known that there was something mysterious about Lord Asriel, but _this_… this was something completely different. She didn't know what to make of it at all.

In later years, after it had all happened, she would wonder why she hadn't just turned then and walked away, but right then it was the last thing which crossed her mind.

"Asriel," she said by way of greeting, when she was standing so close, they were practically touching.

"Walk with me?" he asked, getting to his feet.

She nodded. "We must not be seen, though." The golden monkey slipped down from her shoulder to the ground; his dæmon got to her feet with a swish of her long grey tail and took one cautious step towards him.

"Where are we going?" asked Marisa, following him out of the library.

"My apartment. It's not far. We can be in private there."

Marisa hesitated. Even with the newfound trust between them, it was still a huge step for a married woman to go alone into the house of a man who was not her husband. And that wasn't taking into account what she'd just learnt: he was some kind of… _immortal? _But her curiosity got the better of her: in an apartment there would be many opportunities to discover more. So she said nothing until they had passed through the little park to a row of small blocks of flats.

"I'm not often in London," he told her conversationally, "so there is no need for a grander house."

"How long will you stay this time?" she asked. It was half an act, half genuine, but there was nothing casual about it, no matter what it must have seemed like.

"I haven't decided yet. A few months, I expect. We'll see."

By this time, they had reached the block which contained his apartment. He keyed in the door code and ushered Marisa into the sparse hallway and up the stairs.

He climbed quickly, and she kept pace with him, but in the way his dæmon bounded ahead and stopped to wait for him she could sense an impatience. She soon began to breathe heavily, her face turning an inelegant red from the exertion.

"Nearly there," he said. "One more flight… here we are." He pulled a smooth silver key from his pocket and slotted it into the lock. With a deft twist of his hand, the door swung open.

"Come in," said Asriel. "Do sit down. I'm afraid it's not that impressive, but it serves well enough." Asriel? No, it was Fëanor. Whoever he even was. An _immortal._ Who knew how many years he had spent roaming this world long before she'd been born? The situation was utterly surreal. She didn't quite know what to do, so she pretended that she had overheard nothing and carried on as she otherwise would have done, and sat down with him at the little table, her dæmon curling up beneath the table, close to his but not touching.

"You'll have some wine?" he asked. "I have a bottle or two of Tokay."

"Please," replied Marisa, letting a genuine smile cross her lips at the thought of the sweet golden wine. She watched his every move as he produced the bottle and glasses, as if he was a wild animal who could attack at any moment.

He handed one of the glasses to her. She gripped its stem between two fingers and raised the glass. "Here's to us," she said. She did feel that "us" existed: there was something between them, certainly. But it still sounded just a little presumptuous. That wasn't a problem.

He clinked his glass against hers and then took a sip. She did the same.

Silence fell. Neither of them took their eyes off the other, though both pretended that they were not staring.

Marisa felt a slight brush of her dæmon's fur. It was the snow leopard's tail. Once again, the checklist of what to do was running through her head: gasp a little, catch his eye, smile. She allowed her hand to flop onto the table between them, an offer to touch it.

He accepted the offer. His hand was as cold as ice, but it didn't grip hers, just lying on top of it. She looked at him in that magical way she knew she had, expressing pure happiness and devotion.

Then, after only a few seconds of contact, he removed his hand. A coldness seemed to pass through his entire body until she was almost afraid of the icy aura he created. He let his gaze drift past her, away into the distance, and took another sip of his wine.

She tried not to show her surprise: normally, once a man was under her spell, there was no escaping from her. But, as she had just found out, this was no ordinary man, and no ordinary situation.

She felt almost as if _he _were playing with _her_; toying with her like a cat with a mouse between its paws, waiting to see what she could do. Was this all just a game to him, or was there a core of something genuine somewhere deep within his unfathomable mind?

She didn't know, and she had no way of knowing. But she'd come too far to back out now, and she knew she would win. She would get her answers, and she would get his heart. It was only a matter of time.


	7. Anything

Fëanor could see the uncertainty in Marisa's eyes. She wasn't used to anyone being able to resist her, and this had unsettled her. She didn't quite know what to do next.

"So," she said eventually, "what do you get up to when you're not exploring?"

"Planning my next explorations, mostly," replied Fëanor. "When I have the chance. People want to talk to me so much, now I'm a sort of celebrity. It's an awful waste of time."

"You don't mind talking to me, though," said Marisa. He was surprised by the certainty in her voice: it was a statement, not a question.

"No," he admitted. "I don't. You're less tedious than most – ordinary people." He had nearly said _mortals._ That would have been a horrific slip. He needed to be more careful. Even that one awkward pause would catch her attention.

Stelmaria, as aware as he was of this, swished her long tail angrily from side to side.

"I suppose that is intended as a compliment to me?" asked Marisa. "Because it could just be interpreted as a criticism of everyone else."

"Why couldn't it be both?" Fëanor asked.

"I suppose it could," admitted Marisa. "I just don't think you're the sort to give compliments lightly."

"Not normally, no. But my usual rules don't seem to apply in your case." This was true on so many levels, most of which Marisa would have no idea about. No matter how hard he tried to apply his rules with the same ruthless determination he usually did: _don't get involved with mortals. Don't speak to them more than you must, don't flirt with them, and absolutely do not invite them to your apartment_, he couldn't shut her out.

"Or maybe," said Stelmaria, "you haven't been trying to apply them."

Though this remark was loud enough to be heard by Marisa, it was intended for Fëanor's ears. She was right: he could cast her out, he could forget her, if he wanted to. But he didn't want to. It was too much to ask, after all these years of loneliness and dullness, that he should refuse this woman who made him happy.

Marisa was smiling sweetly again. "Why bother about rules when you could just be having fun?" she asked. "Rules are so restrictive."

"That's heresy," said Fëanor, "coming from a loyal supporter of the Church like you." He couldn't resist the opportunity; it was so fitting.

"You said it yourself," replied Marisa with a grin. "Rules don't apply to me. And you don't appear to care about them."

Fëanor couldn't stop himself breaking into an identical smile. "So, let's just do whatever we want," he concluded. "There's nothing to stop us. We could do anything we wanted together."

Marisa nodded eagerly. "We just need to decide what to do. We have a whole world at our disposal."

"Where do you want to start?" asked Fëanor.

Marisa got to her feet. "With you, of course!" She walked over to his seat and stood next to him, almost begging him to come closer.

They were no longer pretending not to care: they were filled with a passionate desire for each other and for everything. Nothing mattered, not Marisa's husband, not immortality, not anything but each other and what they could do.

Fëanor got to his feet. She was so close their bodies were almost touching. Stelmaria crept, body low to the ground, out from under the table with a purr. The golden monkey leapt into Marisa's arms and climbed up onto her shoulder.

Slowly, tentatively, Fëanor reached out one arm and encircled it around her body. Then he did the same with the other, until each hand gripped the opposite wrist, with Marisa trapped in the centre. They were still not touching.

"Asriel," she whispered.

"Marisa," he responded in kind.

As if this exchange of names had broken some invisible barrier between them, she suddenly flung her arms around his neck. Her hands felt warm and smooth, and to his surprise he found himself able to relax in her embrace.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, touching her now, there were no boundaries. He gripped her slim form tightly, but not so tightly she couldn't breathe, and lifted her effortlessly off the ground.

Out of pure, impulsive joy which he hadn't felt for millennia, he spun around, letting her fly through the air, never taking his eyes off her.

She laughed: a high, clear ringing sound which felt more real and human than anything he'd heard from her before. Her eyes flickered, closed and then open, then closed again.

Fëanor set her gently down on her feet and pulled her closer. She looked up at him with adoring eyes (he wondered briefly whether the expression was faked, then decided he didn't care).

Slowly, almost without thinking about it, they drew closer, eyes closed, until their lips finally met.

Marisa's lips tasted just as sweet as he'd thought they would, if he'd thought about it at all, but thoughts seemed to slip from his grasp as he felt the brush of her hand against his neck and the softness of her hair against his hand.

He felt Stelmaria, giving up the attempt to talk him out of this, spring into the air and pounce on the golden monkey. The dæmon didn't struggle under her claws but relaxed, allowing her to press gently but firmly into his fur.

The moment seemed to last forever, just feeling the presence of each other and the intimate contact between them. Fëanor wished it could have lasted forever, but he knew better than most that everything in these mortal worlds would fade and die.

And end it did, when Marisa pulled away from him. He let her go, although it made his heart ache to do so.

"I should go," she said. "Edward will be wondering where I am. I'll send you a message."

And with that, she was making her way to the door, wine still only half-drunk.


	8. Intoxicating

Marisa didn't quite know what to do. Asriel – or Fëanor, or whatever his name actually was – had accomplished the very rare feat of completely disconcerting her. "So," she said eventually, knowing it sounded stupid but feeling forced to say something, "what do you get up to when you're not exploring?"

"Planning my next explorations, mostly," he replied. "When I have the chance. People want to talk to me so much, now I'm a sort of celebrity. It's an awful waste of time."

"You don't mind talking to me, though," said Marisa, certain enough of that fact – he would hardly have invited her here if she bored him – to make the sentence a statement, not a question.

"No," he admitted. "I don't. You're less tedious than most – ordinary people." His dæmon swished her long tail angrily from side to side.

"I suppose that is intended as a compliment to me?" asked Marisa, who had noticed the catch in his voice and was wondering what it meant. "Because it could just be interpreted as a criticism of everyone else."

"Why couldn't it be both?" he asked.

"I suppose it could," admitted Marisa. "I just don't think you're the sort to give compliments lightly."

"Not normally, no. But my usual rules don't seem to apply in your case."

"Or maybe," said Stelmaria, "you haven't been trying to apply them."

Marisa tried to control the sudden rush of joy at this. He did care about her, at least to some extent. "Why bother about rules when you could just be having fun?" she asked, feeling suddenly mischievous. "Rules are so restrictive."

"That's heresy," he said, "coming from a loyal supporter of the Church like you."

_Touché, _thought Marisa. "You said it yourself," she replied with a grin. "Rules don't apply to me. And you don't appear to care about them."

He smiled in exactly the same way that she had. "So, let's just do whatever we want," he concluded. "There's nothing to stop us. We could do anything we wanted together."

Marisa nodded eagerly. "We just need to decide what to do. We have a whole world at our disposal." The mood in the room had suddenly changed: they were both eager, excited, longing to explore.

"Where do you want to start?" he asked.

Marisa got to her feet. "With you, of course!" It was a bold move, but she felt she could get away with it. She walked over to his seat and stood next to him, almost begging him to come closer.

They were no longer pretending not to care: they were filled with a passionate desire for each other and for everything. Nothing mattered, not Edward, not his immortality, not anything but each other and what they could do.

He got to his feet. He was so close their bodies were almost touching. The snow leopard crept, body low to the ground, out from under the table with a purr. The golden monkey leapt into Marisa's arms and climbed up onto her shoulder.

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out one arm and encircled it around her body. Then he did the same with the other, until each hand gripped the opposite wrist, with Marisa trapped in the centre. They were still not touching.

"Asriel," she whispered.

"Marisa," he responded in kind.

There were no barriers now between them. She impulsively flung her arms around his neck. He tightened his grip, and to her surprise she found it felt the safest, most natural thing in the world to be in his arms.

She was startled when he lifted her off the ground and spun her around effortlessly until she was dizzy, but soon found herself laughing. She couldn't have faked anything now, when her mind had lost control of her body and everything was done on impulse. Dimly, she wondered why this didn't feel horribly unsettling.

She found herself blinking, eyes flicking from open to closed, unable to settle, almost like the way her dæmon, when she was younger, had been unable to decide on a form when she was too excited.

He put her down, and she wondered how she was able to take her own weight when she was so dizzy, she could barely think. She closed her eyes, for good this time, since they weren't doing her much good, and then found herself being drawn almost magnetically to him. The motion was slow and controlled, but finally she found herself kissing him.

She'd kissed many people before, Edward not least, but she could honestly say that she'd never felt like this. It was like it released an explosion of joy in her which her body could barely contain. She let it linger for as long as she could, and suddenly she knew she had to get out.

She'd hoped to make him fall in love with her, to wind him round her little finger, but she'd ended up falling in love with him. And she couldn't let that happen. What had she done? What had she got herself into?

She had to get away, to think clearly, to make sense of this on her own. To work out what to do next. Clumsily, she pulled away from him and opened her eyes. She'd thought for a moment he'd cling to her and refuse to let her out, but the moment she tried to escape his embrace he let her go.

"I should go," she said, barely conscious of the words coming out of her mouth, brain on auto-pilot. "Edward will be wondering where I am. I'll send a message."

Barely aware of the disappointed look on his face, or her glass of wine which she'd barely touched, she walked quickly to the door and fumbled with the handle in her haste to get it open. Finally, it yielded to her and she darted out in a flash and was half-walking, half-running down the stairs before she could regain control of her body and emotions and go back to normal again.


	9. Without Her

She didn't send a message, not for weeks. Fëanor had little time to dwell on it, though, because he was organising his next expedition to the North, and he was going to find a way to break the boundary between worlds.

He didn't need to do it to be able to travel himself: he had learnt, thousands of years ago, the way to travel between worlds without needing a door, but it was hard and dangerous and he didn't like to do it too often. Besides, he could not take an army with him that way, and he would need a thousand armies to fight the coming war.

So, he had to somehow find a way to break through to another world. And the witches, so he'd heard on his last expedition, had always said that the sky was thinnest in the North. All he'd need would be a vast amount of energy.

But where to find that energy? Lightning strikes couldn't be powerful enough, otherwise the fabric of the world would tear in two after every storm. Was there some way to store up the energy from each strike and release it on command? No; storing energy must be impossible. If it could be done, he would have found a way by now.

There had to be some other source of energy, then. Something stronger and more powerful than anything he'd encountered before in another world. Something unique to this world.

He immersed himself in the task of finding it, and the many smaller, less significant tasks which had to be done: the letter to the African king, Ogunwe, to ensure that he would honour his father's promise to join the army. The letter to the bear-king for permission to pass through Svalbard. The finding of equipment and a boat and men to sail it.

He had always immersed himself in his work, of course, because he was Fëanor and when he set his mind to something it became his entire world until it was done. But now he had a different motive to immerse himself: to distract him from thoughts of Marisa.

"She's doing it on purpose," guessed Stelmaria. "It's the sort of thing she'd do. She's trying to make you seek her out."

"I won't," said Fëanor decisively. "If she wants me badly enough, she'll have to come and find me herself. I don't need her."

"Good," Stelmaria replied. "We can end this now, before it properly gets started. It's so much easier, that way."

Fëanor should have felt comforted by that, but he didn't. He'd been alone, more or less, for thousands of years, but he'd never felt lonelier than he did in those two weeks.

He started going to the library, where they'd met twice before, at similar times to when she'd been there, but she was never there. Still, there were numbers to look up, and there was research to do, so it wasn't entirely wasted time. There had been one time, though, when he was sure he'd seen her: a beautiful woman with a golden monkey-dæmon, there was no-one else it could be.

He'd called out to her, almost instinctively: "Mrs Coulter!" He hadn't called her Marisa, because he remembered that being on first-name terms with another man's wife was not a good thing to make public, but it had been an effort to avoid it.

She was sitting in the mythology section, paging through a heavy book on ancient Brytain; he hadn't realised that she was interested in that sort of thing. Was she researching something?

"I'm sorry," she said, raising her head and giving him an icy stare, "have we met?"

Those cold words were the worst blow that had struck Fëanor's heart for millennia. He didn't know what to do, and stood frozen for a second before deciding it would be beneath his dignity to introduce himself to her again, as if their three meetings had never happened.

"No, I believe not," he replied, voice carefully level. "I'm afraid I must have mistaken you for someone else." He turned and walked away before he did something he would regret.

"Why is she doing this?" he asked Stelmaria.

"Maybe she's changed her mind," the dæmon replied. "Maybe she's decided it's too risky."

"But she would have at least let me know, she would have sent something. And I… I'm sure there was something between us. I'm sure she felt something. There must have been _something_ genuine behind her deceit."

"Maybe it was what I said earlier. She's doing this to mess with you. And she's _succeeding."_

He hated to admit it, but it was right. No-one had dared to mess with Fëanor, no matter what persona he took on. Everyone had been too terrified to try.

Until Marisa Coulter.

"What has she done to us?" he asked. "How has she done it? She must be a witch or something, or have cast some kind of spell – "

"Never mind that," Stelmaria said. "She can't be a witch – witches only have bird-dæmons. But there's _something _about her. I don't see how we can find out what it is, but we need to decide what to do."

"I know," he said. "And I know what I should do: carry on and wait for her to get in touch with me, like she said she would."

"Where's the problem, then?" asked Stelmaria.

"You know where. I… you were right all along. I'm sorry. I should have known, and I should have seen this coming long before, and stayed away from her."

Stelmaria was pleased by this rare admission, but she didn't think her luck would stretch enough to get away with an _I told you so_. "It's too late now… what can we do?"

"I won't contact her again," he said. "I can't let her see what she's done to me. I'll hide it, any way I can."

"She'll come back," said Stelmaria, because it was what he wanted to hear, true or not.


	10. Without Him

It took Marisa weeks to work up the courage to send him a message. She'd wanted, more than anything, to send one the very next day. She knew she could be in his arms the very next night if she wanted to. But for the first time in her life, she was afraid.

It was only meant to be a game. Another challenge, another conquest, just like all of the others. And everything had been going just as she would have liked, until that one moment when he'd held her in his arms and she'd realised what she'd done.

She'd wanted power over him, but she'd inadvertently given _him_ power over _her: _the one thing she'd sworn never to do.

Not to mention that he was only a possibly-thousands-of-years-old immortal with who knew what powers.

Lying in Edward's bed that night, trying to pretend there was nothing wrong, she resolved that she was going to find out who – and _what_ – Asriel was. This time, she wasn't going back until she'd worked out exactly what she'd got herself into.

The very next day, she went to the library, grabbed a sheet of paper, and began to make a plan. She had only two clues: the use of the word _mortal _to describe herself, and the name _Fëanor_.

Marisa had never come across any kind of immortal being. She knew of witches and some other creatures and people that could live longer than ordinary humans, but nothing truly immortal. She resolved to research that later, and in the meantime investigated the names.

She spent hours searching through the language books in the library, looking for any connection, any word _fe, fea, anor, nor, fean_ in any language… nothing. "Fea" was Spanish for "ugly", but that was no use at all.

So she turned to the mythology section, and began looking for any rumours of immortal beings or anything like that. Even with information ruthlessly censored by the Church, there had to be something… actually, the Church would know about this sort of thing, if anyone would. But could she manage to ask without attracting attention? She thought she could, but…

"Mrs Coulter!"

It was him. Asriel.

The only way to describe what happened next was that she panicked. She was terrified that he'd find out what she was doing and do who-knew-what to prevent his secret getting out, and she wasn't ready to go back to him yet. She refused to go back until she'd worked out exactly what she wanted to do and how she would go about it. This time, she was going to have a plan.

Unfortunately, that plan was not yet in place, and so she couldn't speak to him. That didn't excuse what she did next. Nothing excused it. "I'm sorry," she said in her iciest tone, giving him a haughty stare, "have we met?"

Whatever happened next, Marisa at least would have the satisfaction for the rest of her life of knowing that she had thoroughly disconcerted Lord Asriel. She wondered briefly what he would do: would he call her out on it, or would he try and introduce himself, or…

"No, I believe not." It was a remarkable recovery from that one frozen second; she had to give him credit (however grudging) for that. It also stung horribly, even though it was what she had wanted.

"I'm afraid I must have mistaken you for someone else." And he turned and left without another word.

In that moment, staring at his back, Marisa decided what she would do. She would go back, of course: she couldn't stay away, and why should she? But not just yet, oh no. She would make him long for her as she was longing for him, drawing out the painful separation. If she was going to fall in love with him, she was going to make sure that he loved her back.

And no-one would be able to resist her, not even the mighty Fëanor, or whatever his name really was.

She smiled, for the first time in days.

Things only got better, after that: it was that very afternoon that Edward announced that he'd been sent on a diplomatic mission to the King of Norway. He didn't want her to come with him: it was too cold, and she wouldn't like it. She could sit at home and keep the house until he returned.

Marisa could barely stop herself laughing. How naïve he was, believing she was the perfect, obedient wife. How perfect would it be to have a glorious month of freedom, and do whatever she wanted without his ever knowing a thing.

She somehow got herself through the week until he left and kept up her role flawlessly. She bid him a fond farewell and kissed him before he boarded the zeppelin to take him to Norway.

He was forgotten the moment it left the ground. She hurried back to their London home and began to write a letter.

_To Lord Asriel,_

_My beloved husband, as I'm sure you probably know, has just left for Norway on a diplomatic mission, to be gone for a month. Of course, I will miss him greatly, and I am sorry not to be permitted to go with him, but I have thought that this would be an excellent opportunity to further our acquaintance._

_I am most interested to hear more about the fascinating discoveries you made on your last trip to the North, and what you plan to investigate in your next expedition. Will it suit you to meet in the Botanic Gardens, tomorrow afternoon at two-thirty?_

_Many thanks,_

_Marisa Coulter._

It was a formal letter, and it kept up her mask: even though she knew he'd see right through it, she still felt obliged on principle not to let it drop. When she had checked it, she walked around to his apartment and slipped it into his letterbox. She felt an urge to ring the bell, but turned and left.


	11. The Botanic Gardens

Fëanor was sitting on a bench in the Botanic Gardens. It was quarter to three and Marisa was late. He'd been waiting for the last forty-five minutes, but had thankfully thought to bring a book so he could look as if he hadn't been checking his watch every ten seconds.

She was doing this on purpose, as usual. She was trying to mess with him, but he refused to be messed with any more than he already had been.

He turned another page, but he barely took in any of the words on it, he couldn't focus on anything but the woman who was going to meet him.

"May I sit here?"

It was her: of course it was her.

"You may… I'm sorry, have we met?" He hadn't planned to throw her words back at her in that way, it had just slipped out.

"No, I believe not. My name is Marisa Delamare."

She didn't use her husband's name, for the first time. Presumably _Delamare_ was her maiden name, although he didn't care about that so much as what it represented: she was free to love him, even if she was still married.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Delamare," he replied, extending a hand in greeting. "I am Lord Asriel."

She took his hand in her white glove (putting on a show, as she always did, even without the audience; he wondered if she ever stopped worrying about her appearance and the act she put on).

"Will you walk with me?" he asked, getting to his feet, not letting go of her hand.

"I will," replied Marisa, allowing him to tuck his arm in hers and lead her across the park.

He hadn't thought about where he was going to take her at all: not to his apartment, but somewhere else. "Stay with me," he said impulsively. "I have a manor house near Oxford. Come and live with me, just for a week. Now that you're free."

"No," said Marisa immediately. "I can't."

"Can't you? Whatever happened to being able to do whatever you wanted if you set your mind to it?" He was hurt by her refusal, by the way she never even considered the possibility.

"This is different," said Marisa. She sounded sad, regretful, as if she was dreaming of what could have been, and couldn't see it as still possible. "You wouldn't understand."

He did understand, more than she would ever have imagined. Marisa was mortal, and as unusual as she was, she was still constrained by the society she had grown up in, by a million unspoken lessons which taught that there was only one way to go about achieving your ambitions and there was no point in trying to make your own way, because it wouldn't work.

Perhaps he'd expected too much of her. It was unfair to presume that even she would have been able to take him up on an offer like this. But he still felt a deep regret that he would not have her by his side when he put his plan into motion.

"I do understand," he said quietly. "Much more than you would ever think. You can join me, but you believe that you can't. That is the difference between us: you have never had the courage to work outside the system, the Magisterium. I have never seen the need to confine myself to work within it."

Marisa said nothing for a long time.

"If you won't come with me… at least give me one night. You must want to keep this going, if you sent a message. What do you want? Eager to come and find me as soon as your husband's outside of the country, and then too afraid to take a chance and do what your heart tells you?"

"I – I'm not _afraid_, Asriel, I'm not a _coward_, but there are limits, not everyone can just push straight through as if they're not there…" she paused, struggling for words. "One of these days it'll catch up with you, you won't be able to just keep ignoring the rules like that, they do exist and the Magisterium, or the CCD, or whoever, they'll find you and they'll…"

He smiled, completely unphased by her implied threat. A lot of people had said that to him, in a lot of worlds, and none of them had ever been right. "If that was going to happen," he said, "it would have done by now. I'm not afraid. Are you coming? Just for one night?"

Marisa hesitated, but he could tell she wanted to accept, and sure enough she said, "All right. But we have to be careful, we mustn't do anything stupid – "

"Marisa, I am never stupid. I'm surprised you could think that of me."

"I never said that you were stupid, I said that you could do stupid _things_. And I'm sure you've done a lot of things you later regretted."

_Only about a billion. _Marisa's innocent words had dredged up long-buried memories of the Oath he'd sworn, that had torn apart a whole kingdom and brought ruin upon an entire people. He would never be free of that for as long as he lived, but he'd learnt to avoid dwelling on these memories, to always have a new goal pushing him forward so that there was no time for reflection.

"Maybe I have. Maybe those are things I'll never, ever tell you about."

"Won't you?" asked Marisa. "I can be very persuasive."

There were many possible implications to what she had just said, but he knew that no matter what she tried, she would never be successful. "I'm sure you can," he said in the exact tone of a parent whose toddler was proudly boasting of a new skill. "I'm sure you can."

He would regret that night, as well, for many years. And for many years more, he would think that it was the best thing he had ever done, worth more than Silmarils.


	12. The Bench

It was quarter past two, and Marisa was early. Lord Asriel was already there, sitting on the bench and trying to read, and she had found a grove of trees where she could see without being seen. The trees were close enough together that she would not be spotted by anyone who wasn't specifically looking for her.

And, golden monkey clinging to a branch just above Marisa's head, they watched him. It felt like breaking some kind of unspoken rule to spy on him like this, but Marisa had always secretly loved breaking rules, subtly, when she wouldn't be caught.

She smiled as she watched his every move.

He was reading a book, or trying to, but she could tell even from a distance that his heart wasn't in it and he was barely taking in a word: sometimes he'd take a minute to turn a page, sometimes only a second. It was just an act, so that when she arrived, she would not see that he'd been waiting for her.

She'd pretend she didn't know, at least for now. She stood and watched him, because she would never tire of watching him, and watched the time tick by until their agreed meeting time – and then another fifteen minutes, because being late would annoy him. And even if she wanted to carry on with him, she would still enjoy making him suffer.

Finally, at quarter to three, she extracted herself from the grove and strolled leisurely down to the bench on which he was sitting. She'd thought about how best to introduce herself to him and decided to act the part of someone who didn't even know him at all.

"May I sit here?" she asked.

"You may… I'm sorry, have we met?"

She bit back a rush of some emotion she couldn't quite pin down, and mimicked his words as he had mimicked hers: "No, I believe not. My name is Marisa Delamare." She hadn't originally planned to use her maiden name, but it felt so fitting now that she had decided to be free.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Delamare. I am Lord Asriel."

…but was he really? Or was it all just some kind of act to him? She felt as if she was losing control, had been ever since she'd first met him. Still, wondering what on earth was possessing her to do this, she took the hand he offered in her white glove.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked.

"I will," replied Marisa. The two stood up and walked across the park, until he suddenly stopped and looked at her.

"Stay with me," he said. "I have a manor house near Oxford. Come and live with me, just for a week. Now that you're free."

"No," she said without stopping to think, knowing that it would be a step too far. "I can't."

"Can't you? Whatever happened to being able to do whatever you wanted if you set your mind to it?"

"This is different," said Marisa. She couldn't help imagining what it would have been like if she'd met him before marrying Edward. If she had truly been free. "You wouldn't understand."

"I do understand," he said quietly. "Much more than you would ever think. You can join me, but you believe that you can't. That is the difference between us: you have never had the courage to work outside the system, the Magisterium. I have never seen the need to confine myself to work within it."

Marisa had never heard such nonsense in her life, but there was a little niggling voice in her head saying that maybe, just maybe, he was right. She said nothing.

"If you won't come with me… at least give me one night. You must want to keep this going, if you sent a message. What do you want? Eager to come and find me as soon as your husband's outside of the country, and then too afraid to take a chance and do what your heart tells you?"

If she'd had to tell the truth, Marisa would have said that she didn't know what she wanted. "I – I'm not afraid, Asriel, I'm not a coward, but there are limits, not everyone can just push straight through as if they're not there…" but he could, couldn't he? "One of these days it'll catch up with you, you won't be able to just keep ignoring the rules like that, they do exist and the Magisterium, or the CCD or whoever, they'll find you and they'll…"

He smiled. "If that was going to happen, it would have done by now. I'm not afraid. Are you coming? Just for one night?"

Marisa hesitated, but she knew she couldn't refuse. "All right. But we have to be careful, we mustn't do anything stupid – "

"Marisa, I am never stupid. I'm surprised you could think that of me."

"I never said that you were stupid, I said that you could do stupid things. And I'm sure you've done a lot of things you later regretted."

The look in his eyes told Marisa that he definitely had done things he'd regretted, and it was painful for him to think about it. "Maybe I have. Maybe those are things I'll never, ever tell you about."

"Won't you?" asked Marisa, just as determined as ever to find out his secrets. "I can be very persuasive."

"I'm sure you can," he replied in the tone of someone talking to a young child far below their own intellectual level, who was overconfident of succeeding. "I'm sure you can."

If there was one thing that Marisa hated, it was being patronised. _I'll prove you wrong one day, _she vowed to herself. _Just you wait. _

She was right – but it would take twelve long years. And the path to their destiny would begin that very night: a night she would regret for many years, and for many more treasure as the most important thing she had ever done.


	13. Morning

Fëanor woke the next morning with Marisa in his arms, the tiniest shift of her arm alerting him to the fact that she was awake. He didn't move, he didn't even open his eyes, but pretended he was still sleeping to see what she would do.

Stelmaria, lying at the bottom of the bed with her tail wrapped around his legs, opened her green eyes and watched Marisa. Fëanor could get a dim sense of what she was seeing: Marisa was still, not moving but eyes open and biting her lip in pain, because –

A sudden flash of thought: her dæmon wasn't there. The golden monkey was outside the room, pulling away from her. Marisa was learning to separate from her dæmon.

Fëanor knew that witches could go a great distance from their dæmons, but they had a different method, doing it all at once, not bit by bit. He'd never before come across anyone willing to put themselves through the pain of distance from their dæmon to gain the power of separation.

But if anyone would do something like that, it would be Marisa.

He wondered what to do: should he reveal that he had been watching her? Yes, but not yet: wait until the monkey returned first.

She was distracted by the pain, so he risked opening his eyes, without moving another muscle, and observing her himself. It felt unnatural seeing a person in this world so far from their dæmon: he had learnt to tell when someone had a part of them just… missing.

They lay there in silence, the woman without her dæmon and the elf-lord watching her. For a moment Fëanor realised how surreal this situation was: after all these nights alone, he could finally sleep with a woman and she was only half there.

The clock on the bedroom wall ticked by. It was six o'clock in the morning by now, and sunlight was beginning to slip through the cracks in the blinds and into the room. Fëanor was impressed at how long Marisa and her dæmon had stayed away from each other, not that he would ever admit that.

Finally, he caught sight of a golden blur dashing into the room, visible once it slowed to a walk as a monkey. He waited for a while to watch it leap gently up onto the bed and curl up beside Marisa, and then he said, "Good morning, Marisa."

"Good morning, Lord Asriel," she said calmly, twisting herself around to face him. Was there a slight note of fear in her voice about what he could have seen? Or was he just imagining it based on what he knew?

He decided to test her acting skills, see how well she could hide her guilt. "You slept well, I trust?"

"I did," replied Marisa calmly. "And you?"

"I also did, thank you. How far can he go?"

"I – I don't know – what you mean."

Her face was a picture of surprise and horror. "Don't lie to me, Marisa. I know you know what I mean. How far away can your dæmon go from you?"

"A couple of yards," said Marisa casually. "The same as most people. Why would you want to know?"

"You're still lying," he said.

"Am I? Why don't you tell me the truth, in that case?"

How could she be so casual about this, as if she didn't even _care _that her darkest secrets had been discovered? What was there about Marisa which let her just keep going even when she must know it was worthless?

"I saw you," he said. "Without your dæmon. He was gone, and you were here."

"Really?" asked Marisa. "How strange. You must have been dreaming. It's a very common thing, dreaming while believing you are awake. I assure you my dæmon was here beside me all night." She reached down to stroke his head between the ears.

He was almost convinced. Many another person would have been convinced by the innocent (and, if he had to admit it, beautiful) smile on her face. It was a very good effort, he had to admit, but it wasn't anywhere near good enough.

"Marisa," he said sharply, and pushed her away with a sudden violent shove so that she almost fell off the bed. "Stop playing your games, we both know the truth. There's no reason for you not to admit it." He pulled the duvet back and swung his legs quickly out of bed.

"I'm sorry," said Marisa, "do forgive me. Very well: you were right. My dæmon was out of the room."

He nodded, already standing up and searching for clothes in the wardrobe: the King had asked to see him, so he would have to be presentable today. He didn't have any more time to waste on Marisa.

"You won't tell anyone, of course," said Marisa. She dragged herself out of bed and adjusted her thick white dressing gown, tying its cord tight about her stomach.

"Won't I?" asked Fëanor, angrier than ever in the face of the absolute certainty of her statement as he pulled his smartest suit from the wardrobe and laid it down on the floor.

Marisa stood up and walked slowly around the bed to the wardrobe to stand next to him. She took two steps forward so that she was standing in her bare feet on his suit. "No," she said softly. "You won't."

He stayed absolutely still, simply longing to see what she did next. He could have said something, but it felt like she'd put some kind of spell on him to keep him standing there, waiting.

Moving slowly, as if he were a wild animal she was trying not to spook, she placed one hand on his bare chest and reached out with the other to caress the back of his neck and pull him closer, gently pushing his head down and twisting it sideways until her lips were touching his ear.

Then she breathed a single word.

_"Fëanor."_


	14. A Whispered Word

Marisa woke in his arms, encircling her so tightly that she couldn't hope to move without waking him. That she refused to do: she couldn't say why, but waking him just seemed _wrong._

However, just because she couldn't move didn't mean her dæmon couldn't, and this was the perfect opportunity to practice something she'd been working on for a while.

Without making a sound, the golden monkey slipped off the bed and began making its way across the room to the still-open door. It was when he stepped through the door and into the corridor that Marisa first began to feel the pain: it felt so _wrong, _so _unnatural_, for her dæmon to be so far away, and she could feel a dull sort of ache or longing in her chest.

It only got worse as he moved slowly further and further away until he was halfway down the corridor, and it was all she could do to hold still and prevent herself from running to him. She bit her lip and focused on lying as still as she could.

The pain didn't ease at all, but after a while she found it more bearable and could almost relax in spite of it. She watched the clock tick by and told herself to wait for two minutes before letting him come back.

The time passed slowly, the hand seeming to slow to half its speed, but finally it was one minute past six. _Come back_, thought Marisa silently, and he did. She smiled as she saw the golden blur coming closer until he could leap up onto the bed and curl up beside her.

"Good morning, Marisa."

She fought her first urge to whip round and face him, carefully controlling her reactions to gently twist around instead. He couldn't know that she was on edge. What had he seen? "Good morning, Lord Asriel," she replied calmly.

"You slept well, I trust?"

"I did," she said, voice carefully level, daring to hope she'd got away with it. "And you?"

"I also did, thank you. How far can he go?"

Her heart skipped a bit. "I – I don't know – what you mean." She felt almost morally obliged to lie and try and get out of it, even though she knew it was hopeless.

"Don't lie to me, Marisa. I know you know what I mean. How far can your dæmon go from you?"

"A couple of yards," replied Marisa casually, hiding her sense of resignation and defeat. "The same as most people. Why would you want to know?"

"You're still lying."

"Am I?" asked Marisa, tilting her head to one side and smiling innocently. "Why don't you tell me the truth, in that case?"

"I saw you," he said, clearly losing patience. "Without your dæmon. He was gone, and you were here."

"Really?" asked Marisa, still sounding perfectly innocent. "How strange. You must have been dreaming. It's a very common thing, dreaming while believing you're awake. I assure you my dæmon was here beside me all night." She reached down to scratch his golden fur between the ears.

"Marisa," he said, sounding angrier than she'd heard him before. He pushed her away so hard that she struggled not to fall out of bed. "Stop playing your games, we both know the truth. There's no reason for you not to admit it." He flung back the duvet and swung his legs quickly out of bed.

"I'm sorry," she said, years of practice guiding her every word, "do forgive me. Very well: you were right. My dæmon was out of the room."

He only acknowledged her with a nod, already busy finding clothes in the wardrobe.

Marisa pulled back her side of the duvet and sat on the edge of the bed, adjusting her dressing gown. "You won't tell anyone, of course," she said.

"Won't I?" he asked, pulling a suit out of the wardrobe and placing it on the floor.

Something in the way he'd said that made something snap within Marisa. He'd been in control of this relationship right since the beginning. It was about time she did something about it. She got to her feet and walked around the bed to stand next to him, and then deliberately but without looking down stepped forward so she was standing on his suit. "No," she said, "you won't."

Then, moving slowly and gently, she reached out to touch him. Her right hand (wedding ring removed) was placed against his bare chest (she ignored the tingling feeling; she wouldn't yield to her emotions now, she would show him) and with the left she caressed the back of his neck, pulling him closer and tilting his head sideways until her lips brushed against his ear.

He didn't move: she had some hold over him already, it was working. Her magic hadn't lost its touch.

It wasn't too late: she didn't have to do this. It was too dangerous; she didn't need to. There were far better ways to ensure his silence. Those thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, but she couldn't stand this any more. She was prepared to face the consequences of what she was about to do, to suffer almost any pain just for the satisfaction of being able to shock him, just this once.

It went against everything she'd ever learnt: twenty-four years of training in precisely how to act, what to say, what to do, gone in an instant. It was the most dangerous thing she'd ever said. He could kill her in ten seconds.

What had he done to her? How had he made this seem like the only way when there were a thousand better choices to be made?

Why was she doing this?

All of those thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, and she knew it was no use trying to stop herself. She'd thought she was taking control, but she was out of control of herself.

Even so, she whispered that word.

"_Fëanor."_


	15. Secret Revealed

Without even thinking about it, he pushed her away and with one hand shoved her up against the wall, pinning her there. "What did you just say?" he said, voice quiet and incredibly dangerous.

"Fëanor," she repeated, not letting any fear whatsoever show in her voice or face. She appeared just as relaxed as she had been that night.

"Where did you hear that name? Who told it to you?"

"You did. Well – Stelmaria did. I overheard the two of you talking."

Of course. How could he have been so careless as to discuss anything of importance in a public place, where anyone could have heard him? He watched her, waiting to see if she would say anything.

"So… it's true, then? You are Fëanor? Some kind of… immortal?"

"No, I was telling lies to myself to pass the time." He couldn't bring himself to admit it, so sarcasm was as good a response as any.

"Who are you, really?" Marisa asked. "And more to the point, _what _are you?"

"What makes you think you have the right to know that?" snapped Fëanor. "When I should kill you just for what you heard?"

"You won't, though," said Marisa calmly. "I know you won't."

And the infuriating thing was that she was right. He wouldn't – _couldn't _– kill her. "I could," he lied, "but I'm choosing not to at the moment."

"Really," she said flatly. "I don't believe you."

They stood there in silence for a moment, and then Fëanor stepped away from her. "If I ever find that you have told this to anyone – anyone at all – I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you forever."

"I wasn't planning to reveal you," she replied casually. "But I can't help being curious."

"Curiosity is a sin, is it not, Marisa? It was the very reason Eve first ate the apple, after all."

"In some respects, when it is merely idle and lazy, prying into those matters that do not concern you, it is undoubtedly a sin. But when used wisely and with restraint it is one of the most valuable tools humanity has at its disposal."

That was the same answer that she would have given to someone high up in the Magisterium who asked that question seriously rather than in jest, but Fëanor was not impressed.

"This does not concern you. Your curiosity is idle and lazy, and therefore by your own arguments you have no right to know."

"But it does concern me," said Marisa. "I am your lover, and I have the right to know about you."

"I do not reveal my secrets to just anyone because they happen to have spent a night with me," said Fëanor.

"One thing," she said. "Just one thing, and I won't ever ask for anything else, and I'll keep your secret forever."

He shouldn't have been tempted. He definitely shouldn't have believed her. And there was no way he should have told her a single word.

"What do you want to know?"

"What are you? I know you're an immortal, but can you die? How?"

"I am one of the _Quendi_. I can die, but only by violent means, or if I wish to do so. I will never get old."

"How old are you?"

"I told you that I would only answer one thing. That is what I have done, and now I will not tell you anything else."

She pouted: a childish, unguarded expression, one of the closest things to a show of genuine feeling he'd seen so far (and also, if he had to admit it, breathtakingly attractive). "Oh, very well," she said. "If you must conceal things needlessly from me – but I would have thought you'd be longing to have someone you can finally confide in, someone you can talk to, after so many years."

"Get out of my room, you wicked enchantress," he ground out, "before you cast your spell over me!"

"I'll take that as a compliment," said Marisa with a smile, and walked out of the door, golden monkey clinging to her shoulder.

He picked up his suit and waved it vigorously back and forth to smooth out the rumples from where Marisa had stepped on it.

"You idiot," hissed Stelmaria, mindful that Marisa was almost certainly listening at the door. "What have you done?"

"I couldn't help it," he replied. "It's much too late for reproach now, isn't it? There's nothing we can do."

"Do you think she'll tell anyone?"

He shook his head. "I know she's the least trustworthy person we've ever met. But… somehow, on this at least, I trust her. I don't think this is the sort of thing she'd betray me on. And if she did – who would believe her?"

"No-one," said Stelmaria softly.

They finished dressing in silence and then Fëanor cautiously opened the door to the corridor. Marisa wasn't there. He walked quickly down the corridor to the living room, and found her sitting on one of the chairs, paging absently through one of _his _books on anbaromagnetic fields. The nerve!

"I trust you're finding my book interesting," he said, a slight edge to his voice.

"Of course," she replied without looking up. "Though not so interesting as the stories you could tell me if you wanted to."

He couldn't work out whether he loved or hated her. It was probably both at once. "And I don't want to," he said sharply.

"That's a pity," she replied, turning a page. "I was rather hoping to hear them. But of course, I wouldn't dream of asking for something you refuse to give me."

He was only just able to prevent himself from reacting to this blatant hypocrisy. "Excellent," he said. "I'm glad to hear that you won't be hassling me about it. Now I really must be going, and I would rather not leave you alone in my apartment."

"Don't you trust me?" asked Marisa.

"I wouldn't trust you one inch if my life depended on it."


	16. Discoveries

Now caught up to AO3 - next update will be in twelve days and every other Sunday from there.

* * *

He pinned her against the wall in an instant, his grip so fierce and firm she knew there was no hope of fighting back. She'd have to talk her way out of probably the most dangerous situation she'd ever been in.

"What did you just say?" he asked in a voice whose quietness did not hide its danger at all.

There was no use pretending not to have said it: she'd have to be bold and confident but at the same time soft and malleable. "Fëanor," she repeated carefully.

"Where did you hear that name? Who told you?"

Inevitable. Best to tell the truth, not implicate anyone else – or should she pretend someone else knew, so he wouldn't just dispose of her? No, he wouldn't do that. She'd make sure of it, if she hadn't already. "You did," she said. "Well – Stelmaria did. I overheard the two of you talking."

He said nothing, instead studying her thoughtfully as if she were an artwork, as if the answers to his unasked questions would be written on her face.

"So… it's true, then?" asked Marisa eventually and cautiously. "You are Fëanor? Some kind of… immortal?"

"No, I was telling lies to myself to pass the time."

As close to an admission as he'd get. It was true, there was no use trying to convince herself it wasn't. "Who are you, really?" she asked. "And more to the point, what are you?" She had to know, she had to understand what he was, whether it was curiosity or some longing to find his weakness and to finally understand him.

"What makes you think you have the right to know that?" he snapped. "When I should kill you just for what you heard?"

She'd pushed him too far. She'd have to chance it, risk everything on the hope that she was right, that he wouldn't kill her. "You won't, though," she said. Fear hidden, sounding as certain as she'd ever been about anything. "I know you won't."

"I could, but I'm choosing not to at the moment."

"Really. I don't believe you," she said flatly, because she was certain, now, that he was bluffing.

He stepped away. "If I ever find that you have told this to anyone – anyone at all – I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you forever."

"I wasn't planning to reveal you.," replied Marisa honestly. "But I can't help being curious."

"Curiosity is a sin, is it not, Marisa? It was the very reason Eve first ate the apple, after all."

"In some respects, when it is merely idle and lazy, prying into those matters that do not concern you, it is undoubtedly a sin. But when used wisely and with restraint it is one of the most valuable tools humanity has at its disposal." Years of practice at interpreting words the way she wanted people to see them for the Magisterium came in useful, although she doubted it would impress him.

"This does not concern you. Your curiosity is idle and lazy, and therefore by your own arguments you have no right to know."

"But it does concern me. I am your lover, and I have the right to know about you."

"I do not reveal my secrets to just anyone because they happen to have spent a night with me."

"One thing," bargained Marisa. She was confident this would work. "Just one thing, and I won't ever ask for anything else, and I'll keep your secret forever."

"What do you want to know?" he said after a pause.

"What are you? I know you're an immortal, but can you die? How?"

"I am one of the Quendi. I can die, but only by violent means, or if I wish to do so. I will never get old."

"How old are you?"

"I told you that I would only answer one thing. That is what I have done, and now I will not tell you anything else."

She pouted. "Oh, very well, if you must conceal things needlessly from me – but I would have thought you'd be longing to have someone you can finally confide in, someone you can talk to, after so many years."

"Get out of my room, you wicked enchantress, before you cast your spell over me!"

"I'll take that as a compliment." She smiled and left, overall pleased with how the encounter had gone. She was alive and unharmed, and had a precious scrap of information – and was confident that, despite his resistance, she would be able to find out more.

In his living room, she waited for a while before running her hands along his bookshelves and selecting a book on anbaromagnetic fields, which she took to the nearest chair and began casually flicking through while she waited for him to come and find her.

"I trust you're finding my book interesting." Fëanor had finished getting dressed and walked briskly into the room, shooting her an annoyed look. Excellent. She had him rattled at last.

Marisa replied, not looking up as she turned another page, "Of course. Though not so interesting as the stories you could tell me if you wanted to."

"And I don't want to."

"That's a pity. I was rather hoping to hear them. But of course, I wouldn't dream of asking for something you refuse to give me." Blatant lies, of course: she intended to do everything she could to find out more about him.

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear that you won't be hassling me about it. Now I really must be going, and I would rather not leave you alone in my apartment."

He was utterly infuriating. She wanted to scream, and knew that once she was in the privacy of her own apartment she probably would, and that something breakable would face her fury. "Don't you trust me?" she asked, knowing the answer already (if there was a clear answer, which there wasn't).

"I wouldn't trust you one inch if my life depended on it."


	17. Disaster

Over the next few weeks, while Edward Coulter was still away in Sweden, they met many more times. Marisa made a few attempts to find out more about him, but he rejected all of them as what they were.

And then, only a day before Edward was due back, there was a knock at Fëanor's door. He hadn't been expecting Marisa, and barely anyone else knew his address, so he was confused as to who it could be. He opened the door cautiously to see Marisa, looking smaller and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her before.

"Marisa," he said, regarding her icily (or as icily as he could when his heart was pounding at the mere sight of her). "Why are you here? We hadn't arranged to meet."

She looked at him for one long moment (and he was shocked to see that her eyes were glistening with tears) and then said softly "I'm pregnant."

It was the most shocking moment in millennia. He'd learnt to inure himself to any revelation, any betrayal, any surprising twist of events, but this was different. "You're sure? And… it's mine?"

"Of course," she spat. "I wouldn't have come if I hadn't been certain. But – I have to know – _what_ is it going to be? Will it be _half-immortal_? Is that even possible? Why – why did you let this happen? Why weren't you careful?"

Fëanor was furious: that she viewed having his child as a bad thing, something that was nothing but a stain on her reputation, and even more so that she blamed him for it when she was at fault as much as he was.

"Why wasn't _I _careful?" he spat right back. "I'm not the one who cares about reputation, about appearances, I'm not the one who would be destroyed by this if it came out. Why weren't you careful, if it's so important to you?"

For the first time, Marisa seemed to let down her guard, and it was if something snapped: as if the carefully-maintained façade of a perfect lady just disappeared and he could see into the depths of her soul, see the monster that she truly was. "You heartless, heartless alien!" she screamed. "You're not even human, I don't know what you are, you couldn't possibly understand, if my husband found out – "

"So, we won't let him find out," interrupted Fëanor. "I know you can hide it from him, it's that simple."

But Marisa was not appeased, not one bit. "Nothing is ever that simple! You wouldn't know, you've never had to deceive the way I have, to play the game where your every action is a move that can give you away – "

"How do you think I've survived for thousands of years in worlds which aren't my own, never once being caught, never once even being suspected? You think I don't know about concealment?"

"You can play whatever role you want," screamed Marisa. "You can be whoever you want to be, I can only be what this world wants me to be! I can only be a perfect, obedient wife with no thoughts of my own! You have _no idea_ how that feels!"

"Marry me," said Fëanor.

Marisa's fury dissolved in an instant at this. "What," she said quietly. "I'm already married. I can't."

"I'm already married, too," said Fëanor. "But since my wife is in a different world, and one I have no intention of ever returning to, I doubt it makes much difference. And I'm sure you'd be quite capable of arranging a tragic accident, would you not?"

Marisa blinked slowly, trying to process his words. "I _could_," she said, "but – I – if I married you, what would happen? I know you wouldn't – we couldn't – we can love each other, but we can't work together, we – we're so different – " She was starting to break down now, struggling to express herself coherently, at risk of causing a scene or being noticed.

"You'd better – better come in," said Fëanor. He'd never been good at dealing with someone acting irrationally, out of control, and Marisa was tricky to deal with at the best of times. "We can talk through it. Work out what to do."

She came in – and then, the moment he'd shut the door behind her, she let out a scream, a growl of frustration mixed with mental agony, and snatched up the book he'd been reading, fingers ready to tear and rip and destroy –

He acted on instinct: something he knew shouldn't be done. Stelmaria leapt, forcing Marisa to the ground and pinning her down, fearsomely sharp teeth only millimetres from her throat.

He could _feel _every place where the dæmon's fur brushed Marisa's skin, and it was electrifying: it felt so wrong, so out of place, and so perfect.

"Please do not destroy my possessions," he said coldly to hide his discomfort and joy, prising the book from her fingers.

Marisa slowly relaxed, fury and rage vanishing in the pure shock of being attacked by another's dæmon. She was more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her before. "What are we going to do?" she asked softly, not flinching despite Stelmaria's head only an inch from hers. "I _can't _marry you, and I _can't _abandon Edward, and there would be questions asked – it would be too dangerous if I tried to lose the baby."

"So, you have to pretend it's his," concluded Fëanor. "It's the only logical thing. At least until it's born…"

"And then you can take it away," she said acidly. "Since it's _yours_, after all. Do what you like with it. I'll say it died, and with any luck no-one will ever know any better."

Even Fëanor was shocked at this callousness to the unborn child. "I will," he said. "It'll certainly be better off than having _you _raise it and indoctrinate it with your stupid limitations. _My _child will be capable of anything, no matter what your stupid society thinks."

And he was very, very right.


	18. Pregnant

Marisa barely managed to walk at a normal, sensible pace to Fëanor's apartment: it took every last scrap of self-control to hold in the turmoil of emotions boiling inside her. She knocked at the door, desperately hoping he'd be in, she'd be able to… to get some of this out of her system so she could think again.

To her relief, he did indeed open the door. "Marisa," he said coldly. "Why are you here? We hadn't arranged to meet."

"I'm pregnant." She hadn't meant to tell him so bluntly, so viciously, it had just slipped out like that.

"You're sure?" he asked, looking more shocked than she'd ever seen him. "And… and it's mine?"

"Of course. I wouldn't have come if I hadn't been certain." And then the words, the muddled, chaotic thoughts she'd been trapping inside herself, all came spilling out. There was no mask, no pretence, it was all just pure anger and frustration. "But – I have to know – _what_ is it going to be? Will it be _half-immortal_? Is that even possible? Why – why did you let this happen? Why weren't you careful?"

"Why wasn't I careful?" He was angry, and not surprisingly. Marisa had lost control and his pride wouldn't stand these insults she was flinging at him. "I'm not the one who cares about reputation, about appearances, I'm not the one who would be destroyed by this if it came out. Why weren't you careful, if it's so important to you?"

"You heartless, heartless alien!" she screamed, barely conscious of the words she was spitting out. Her raw emotions became words with nothing in between. This was the real Marisa. The monster she was. "You're not even human, I don't know what you are, you couldn't possibly understand, if my husband found out – "

"So, we won't let him find out – it's that simple."

"Nothing is ever that simple!" He was calm still, but every word he said made her angrier, more like a wild creature with some obsessive need to make others suffer. "You wouldn't know, you've never had to deceive the way I have, to play the game where your every action is a move that can give you away – "

"How do you think I've survived for thousands of years in worlds which aren't my own, never once being caught, never once even being suspected? You think I don't know about concealment?"

Something inside her registered that as a valid point, tucked away the information for future reference, but she was beyond caring right now. It wasn't just her anger at him, now, it was everything: the world, the baby, Edward, the Church, whatever restrictions were keeping her in this place she would never belong. "You can play whatever role you want! You can be whoever you want to be, I can only be what this world wants me to be! I can only be a perfect, obedient wife with no thoughts of my own! You have _no idea_ how that feels!"

"Marry me," he said.

That shocked her out of her rage, at least a little, and she said flatly "What. I'm already married. I can't." The move was so unexpected she couldn't understand where it had come from.

"I'm already married, too. But since my wife is in a different world, and one I have no intention of ever returning to, I doubt it makes much difference. And I'm sure you'd be quite capable of arranging a tragic accident, would you not?"

Marisa tried to find a coherent argument to express exactly why she couldn't marry him. "I could, but – I – if I married you, what would happen? I know you wouldn't – we couldn't – we can love each other, but we can't work together, we – we're so different – "

"You'd better – better come in. We can talk through it. Work out what to do."

Marisa stepped through the door. He shut it behind her, and she screamed. She'd lost control completely, she just wanted to destroy, to make something scream to stop her own screaming inside. Needed to tear, to rip, to kill, to destroy.

She was pinned to the ground, and let out a little gasp, because it was Stelmaria who had leapt upon her, and she was touching his dæmon. She froze, savouring and hating the feeling and slowly relaxing under the snow leopard's claws. It felt so wrong and yet so natural. Like everything with Fëanor did.

"Please do not destroy my possessions," said Fëanor, sounding undisturbed as he prised the book she'd grabbed away from her.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, able to think rationally, trying to consider things logically. "I can't marry you, and I can't abandon Edward, and there would be questions asked – it would be too dangerous if I tried to lose the baby."

"So, you have to pretend it's his. It's the only logical thing. At least until it's born…"

Yes. She could do that. There was still hope. "And then you can take it away," she said bitterly. She didn't want to be a mother; she didn't want this baby. He could deal with it, he was better placed than her to bring up a child. Crazy though it was to entrust any child to that madman, it was better than bringing her daughter up as a Coulter. "Since it's yours, after all. Do what you like with it. I'll say it died, and with any luck no-one will ever know any better."

He looked hurt at her casual cruelty, even though he knew her well enough by now. "I will. It'll certainly be better off than having you raise it and indoctrinate it with your stupid limitations. My child will be capable of anything, no matter what your stupid society thinks."

That stung. That really, really hurt her. It was all too much. Too unfair, too stupid. But she would cope: she always did. She could do anything, if she only set her mind to it.


	19. Seperation

Marisa stayed a long time that night, but she and Fëanor didn't talk very much. All too soon, though, their time together had run out: Edward was returning from Sweden the next day (no, today. It was two in the morning.) and Marisa needed to be there when he got back, the obedient wife who'd been sitting at home keeping house rather than away with an immortal being.

"Well," said Stelmaria when she had left. "A child."

"Yes," he said. "I don't think I'm going to be a very good father. Not after I messed up so spectacularly last time."

"That was thousands of years ago," Stelmaria replied. "Maybe this is your chance to make up for it."

"The _Valar _have no power in this world. And I have more important things to worry about than a child, however special. We're going to destroy the Authority, and the places we're going will not be safe."

"What are we going to do with it, if not take it with us?"

He paused for a second. "The gyptians," he said. "I know I can rely on them to keep it safe and look after it. I can find a nurse for it and keep it in my manor for a while, and it can be brought up gyptian. I'll just be a distant relative or family friend."

Stelmaria nodded. "That seems sensible. But we should tell it who it is – _what _it is."

He laughed bitterly. "No child would want the burden of being mine."

"We need to write it down," said Stelmaria. "Write it down, so when they're old enough they'll have everything. If we don't survive this, I want them to be able to know who we were and what we did."

He sighed. "That will take time. Time we can't afford to spend. But yes… we should do it. You're wise as ever."

"Maybe if you'd had me to advise you back then, things would have gone differently," she suggested.

"Maybe," he agreed. "Unlikely, though." He felt better, now: he had a plan to deal with the situation. "You were right," he admitted. "I never should have gone near her. I was lucky to get away with this."

"So it's over, then? No more seeing her?" asked Stelmaria.

He nodded. He knew if he didn't end it now, he might never be able to. What did she matter, anyway? She was just a mortal with a pretty smile and half a brain. He had much bigger things to worry about.

"Stop lying to yourself," said the dæmon. "You do care about her, whether you should or not. But it'll go away in time. With any luck once the child's born you'll never have to see her again."

Stelmaria was right, he knew. She was always right. It would have been annoying if she'd been anyone else other than an extension of himself.

He felt the urge to do something, anything, to distract him, and the first thing that caught his eye was the book Marisa had nearly destroyed. It was proving to be very interesting with regards to the shamans of the North. They had knowledge of the other worlds, it appeared, and he needed to find out what.

He'd have to track one of them down on his next expedition to the North. And he felt a sudden urge to bring it forward to, say, about eight months' time. He'd take the baby away, give it to the gyptians and get out.

"You should probably rest," said Stelmaria.

"You know I wouldn't be able to," Fëanor replied. "Not now. Rest is hard at the best of times, and after that news… I wouldn't be able to stop myself thinking about – " He stopped and sighed. "About the past. And we know the rules: no thinking about the past."

It was too late: memories were already flooding into his mind. Memories of Nerdanel – how different she was from Marisa! How ordinary, how sensible, how practical! But he had loved her, he would never stop loving her. "She wasn't ambitious enough," he said. "But Marisa is too ambitious."

"You don't need a partner," said Stelmaria. "We have each other, and that's enough."

It wasn't. Marisa, he knew, was the closest he would ever get to an equal, and even she was bounded by constraints. Sometimes he thought he was the only free person in any world. Sometimes he thought he was destined to always be alone.

"Destiny," he laughed. "Listen to me. What's happening to me? I don't believe in destiny. I will make my own future."

"We will," she said. "We chose our path long ago, and we are strong enough for it. It's just a shock, that's all. Just a surprise. And it changes nothing. Give it a few days and you'll be perfectly fine."

"I'll never be fine," he said, laughing. It was a wild, strange sound: the sound of someone on the edge of madness. "I'll never be fine. Never be okay again. Not after everything."

"You really need to rest. To recover from this mood."

"Resting won't solve anything. Making progress will."

"We can't make much progress at two in the morning. We could start writing to the child."

He sighed. "I suppose. Let me fetch paper."

He did so, and Stelmaria gripped a pen in her jaws and carried it over to him. He sat down at the desk and began to write.

_My name is Curufinwë Fëanoró. My story will take some time to write. _

_I was born in Tirion upon Tuna, city of the Eldar in Valinor, son of Finwë High King of the Noldor and Mìriel Selinde. My mother died soon after I was born, and my father, fool that he was, remarried…_

He hadn't thought about the events he described for hundreds of years. It was painful, but there was happiness there too in those earlier years before Morgoth had ruined everything.

And he would have his revenge, soon enough.


	20. Troubles

Marisa was barely awake when the zeppelin carrying her husband touched down. She was in no fit state to play the loving wife, but for the sake of everything she would have to conceal her sleep-deprived state and the emotions boiling inside her from last night.

She wore his favourite dress and her horrid red heels that pinched her feet, and held the golden monkey in her arms, stroking him gently to keep him calm. There was a small cluster of other people at the zeppelin-port, a few talking to each other but most keeping themselves to themselves as they watched the passengers disembarking.

"Edward!" she said as soon as she saw him, with as much false enthusiasm as she could muster. "I missed you so much!"

The golden monkey leapt down from her arms to scratch his vixen-dæmon behind the ears. Edward smiled. "I missed you too, Marisa."

"How was Sweden?" she asked, as they walked out of the port and along the main street.

"Boring, and cold," Edward replied. "But I managed to negotiate a reduction in the wool tariffs, so at least I got something out of it."

"Glad to hear it," said Marisa, a sweet smile fixed on her face. She still couldn't get thoughts of Fëanor out of her head, and even though she knew he had no way of telling she was terrified he'd be able to find out. "Let's go."

They walked home together, hand in hand. Marisa felt uncomfortable: she'd fooled her husband for the last few years into believing she loved him, but it was altogether different when every step he took, every word he spoke, reminded her that he wasn't Fëanor, would never be even close to him. That the child growing inside her wasn't his.

She barely knew what he was saying to her, even as the correct and proper responses slipped easily from her tongue. All she could hear was Fëanor's mocking voice. _You don't love him. You don't care about him. Your child isn't his._

Her free hand gripped the fabric of her dress as if crushing it would rid her of these terrible thoughts. She felt lost, helpless, out of control. What had Fëanor done to her? What had happened to the perfectly poised woman, saying the right words to the right people to get what she wanted?

Maybe she should have gone with him. Maybe then she wouldn't be driving herself mad, thoughts wandering around in meaningless circles. But the thought of going to him, admitting that he had been right, she had been wrong, she was too weak to control her feelings and stick to her chosen path… no. She couldn't do that. Never, ever, ever.

Before she knew it, they were at home. Home? It might be his home, but these walls held no warmth, no happiness, for her. Even behind these walls she could never let her mask down. Never be herself.

Sometimes she wondered if her inner self even existed any more.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked. "I've been planning a party to celebrate your achievements and your safe return, but that's not for another few nights – I thought I should give you some time to recover and go over the plans yourself before then."

He smiled. "That's my Marisa – keeping everything shipshape and organised so I don't need to waste my time worrying about these things."

Marisa barely managed to keep her sudden burst of fury under control. "It's my pleasure," she said with a smile, seething inside. "Shall we have some wine?"

Edward nodded and offered her his arm, which she took, allowing him to escort her to the dining room.

She'd already got the servants to fetch the bottle and glasses, so she could pour two glasses. It struck her how easy it would be to slip a poison into his glass and set herself free. Such a pity she didn't have any with her. Where did you get poison these days?

Her dæmon shook his fur as if these madwoman's thoughts could be shaken off like dust mites. She knew they couldn't.

Her own wine tasted sweet and light and heady, but it reminded her too much of Tokay, and Fëanor, and everything that she was trying to forget. She tried to throw herself into the part of Edward's loving, devoted wife, in the hopes that she could fool even herself into forgetting.

"Another glass?" she asked.

Edward nodded curtly and she poured out a second glass for both of them and began slowly sipping. She wanted to gulp down the whole thing and more, and it was all she could do to keep herself under control.

She needed to do something drastic, to make someone hurt to stop herself hurting, but she couldn't, not while Edward was here. She was falling apart, breaking.

It was all Fëanor's fault. From the moment she'd first met him she'd been out of control, and now that she was pregnant it was even worse. She couldn't take it any more.

Her arm slipped out and "accidentally" sent the wine bottle smashing to the floor. It made a satisfying-sounding crash as it landed. Shards of glass fell everywhere and the deep red liquid spilt out onto the floor, looking almost like bloodstains.

"Sorry – " she said, "so sorry. My arm must have slipped. I'll ring for Mary to come and clear it up."

Edward could see her distress, but he thought it was because of the wine. "It's quite alright, dear. Accidents happen."

His innocent words took on a whole other meaning to Marisa: this accident of an unwanted baby, half-immortal, that was going to put her through so much pain and humiliation in these coming months.

"Yes," she said. "So they do. That's life. We just have to cope as best we can."

She was going to cope, going to get through this, if only so she would be there when Fëanor fell from his mighty pride.


	21. The End

It was all going according to plan: the baby had been born perfectly healthy. He'd named her Lyra and her dæmon Pantalaimon, and taken her to his mansion where Ma Costa had been looking after her. His other plans were going smoothly, too, and he felt able to take enough time off to go hunting.

His jet-black mare, Mórëlintië, flew over the ground, barely needing his urging in her sense of the thrill of the hunt. Stelmaria bounded alongside, strides matching the horse's. The wind whipped across his body.

"Asriel! Asriel!"

That was Thorold's voice, and it sounded panicked. He pulled back on the reins and Mórëlintië jerked to a halt.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Edward Coulter – he's here, he's searching the cottage – Ma Costa's got away to the manor, but – "

He didn't wait for another word; he turned Mórëlintië around and spurred her on, jumping right over Thorold and galloping at top speed back to the manor. He leapt off the horse, pushed open the door and charged inside.

Edward Coulter had his hands on the door of the cupboard, but he looked up as he heard the bang of the door swinging shut behind Fëanor, and he had a gun in his hand.

Without even thinking, Fëanor closed the gap and ripped the gun from Edward's hand before he had time to react. He tossed it to the side. "You don't touch my daughter," he said warningly.

"Your daughter? My wife's daughter! You had a child with my wife!"

"And?" asked Fëanor.

Edward suddenly lunged for the gun and snatched it up. "Come any closer and I'll shoot you!" he spat.

Fëanor grabbed his arm just as he pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. They struggled until he was able to prise the gun out of Edward's hand. Then he pulled the trigger.

It was at point-blank range. There was no way he could have missed. Edward Coulter fell dead at his feet in a moment.

And that was that.

A couple of hours later, the police were at the door. He told them everything honestly: yes, he had killed the man, but it had been in defence of himself, his home and his daughter. He even told them who the mother was: Marisa wouldn't like it but it was the only thing to do.

They didn't try to arrest him, fortunately for them. If they had he probably would have killed them all. But they warned him, said they'd be watching him and they would set a court date for him to be put on trial for murder.

Not long after the police were gone, he had another visitor. He'd been expecting this one.

He hadn't seen her since just after the birth. They'd both sworn never to meet again. Her hair was dishevelled, her dress clashed horribly with her eyes and her make-up had run. This from Marisa was like bursting into tears and collapsing in a heap from anyone else.

"What have you done?" she asked. Her voice was level, and she was keeping her distance. Controlling herself.

"I am perfectly uninjured, as is your daughter. Thank you for asking," he replied sarcastically.

"You killed my husband?" she asked.

"Yes. I thought you'd be grateful."

"Grateful? For the loss of my reputation, for everything I've been working towards for the last three years?" She was holding herself back. There was none of the closeness there had been before. This was a distant, calculating Marisa. She was playing the game, her every breath a new move.

"For setting you free from a man you didn't love," he replied.

"If this is your idea of freedom, then I think I'd much rather be imprisoned. Think what it will do to me – an adulteress, a scarlet woman, I'd be shamed, I'd never be able to show myself in public again!"

She meant every word she was saying.

"Good," he replied. "Then maybe now you have no reputation to lose, you'll be willing to marry me."

She laughed: not the warm, cheerful, utterly fake sound she gave to politicians who pleased her, but high and bitter, almost chilling. "Marry you? After what you've done to me? I'd rather die."

"What I've done to you? You brought this upon yourself, Marisa. You chose to continue our affair as much as I did. I never forced you to do anything."

He was right, and she knew it and hated him for it.

"We'll see what the courts think about that, won't we?" she asked.

"So you're going to twist it so I was to blame, and you are – what, the poor innocent naïve trusting victim, never realising what she'd got herself into until far too late? And I'm the villain, calculating my every move to shame the angelic wife of Edward Coulter and ruin both of you forever?"

She shot him a look of utter hatred. "And what do you propose to do?"

"I'll tell them the truth. About what happened between us, about what I did, about what you did. And let the courts do what they like. They can't hurt me. Don't you want to see Lyra?"

"Why should I?" she asked. "It's not as if I care about your daughter."

He chuckled. "Oh, Marisa. Every time I think I'm used to the callous depths of whatever passes for your heart, you say something that reminds me that you've never had one."

"We have nothing more to say to each other," she said, turning away.

"I quite agree. Get out of my life. I have better things to do than conduct another affair with you."

"And so do I," she replied, not showing the pain that must have caused her at all. "Goodbye, Fëanor. Don't worry, I'll keep your little secret."

He watched her go and knew that she meant what he had said: both about keeping his secret and about leaving.

"Well," he said. "That's over now."

"Good," added Stelmaria. "It should never have happened."


End file.
